


waiting for the blow i will take for you

by crookedheart (nighimpossible)



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bodyguard, M/M, Tommy joins the Secret Service
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 16:19:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11039805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nighimpossible/pseuds/crookedheart
Summary: “How long have you been working for the Secret Service, Tommy?” Lovett asks, looking up at Tommy disdainfully.“It’s, uh, it’s actually my first day, sir,” Tommy blurts out, and that’s probably not the answer he should have gone with. Something along the lines ofI’ve been working under supervision in the White House for weeks and have gone through extensive training to get herewould probably have gone over better thanI’m a novice, enjoy.Lovett looks at Favreau from around Tommy’s shoulder. “Awesome. I’m going to die, and you’reone-hundred percentnot in the will, Favs.”—Tommy is a Secret Service agent and Lovett is his first assignment.





	waiting for the blow i will take for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magisterequitum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterequitum/gifts), [engine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/engine/gifts).



> Warning for realistic gun violence. The piece doesn't spend too much time on it, but it is definitely there.
> 
> Title from the CHVRCHES song "Follow You." I blame this entirely on Jordan and Kate and whatever hell-thing possessed me over the three-day weekend to crank out 12k of delightful nonsense. Everything is, obviously, very made up. Please be cool and do not share this to the people involved in the story. 
> 
> A monumental thanks to Kate, who did some unbelievable editing on this piece. She made this story a thousand times better than it was.

 

To join the Secret Service, you must have and/or complete:

  * A four year undergraduate degree  

  * A two year master’s program  

  * A long battery of physical and mental exams  

  * A polygraph test that Tommy prefers not to think about  

  * Background checks so intense that Tommy is pretty certain that his great-grandmother has been vetted  

  * Ten weeks of the Criminal Investigator Training Program (CITP) in Glynco, GA  

  * Seventeen weeks of the Special Agent Training Course (SATC) in Beltsville, MD  




When Tommy was assigned his first post, he’d approached his superior, Agent Gilstrap, a former marine who had worked in the Service for nearly a decade.

“Think I’m ready, sir?” Tommy had prodded, hoping for a positive reply.

“What do you think, Special Agent Vietor?” Gilstrap grunted at him.

Tommy shrugged. “I guess so, sir. Did all the training.”

Gilstrap had hissed through his teeth. “Training’s training. But new or old, no one’s ever ready for their first firefight.”

Tommy barely managed not to roll  his eyes, but the nerves in his stomach were making him a little twitchy. “You say that to all the young agents, sir?”

“Nah.” Gilstrap grinned at him. “Just the ones who ask. You know,” he continued mirthlessly, clapping Tommy on the shoulder, “the stupid ones.”

 

* * *

 

**six months later**

“Stay down,” Tommy hisses in Lovett’s ear. Bullets spray across the stage around them, and Tommy curls his body down, shielding Lovett from the fray. In the chaos, Tommy can hear the heavy _thunk-thunk-thunk_ of footsteps, and then Dan screaming something that sounds a lot like, “ _Stand down!_ ”

Tommy’s shoulder hurts. It really fucking hurts, Jesus _Christ_ —

“They shot you,” Lovett whispers. “ _They fucking shot you._ Tommy _—_ ” He can’t tell if it’s Lovett that’s shaking, or if the adrenaline propelling him through this situation has torn his nerves asunder, but the two of them quiver against each other.

Inexplicably, Tommy almost laughs, because Gilstrap was right. 

No one’s ever really ready.

* * *

 

**six months earlier**

Tommy knows that he’ll probably float around doing minor detail work before he ever gets assigned to someone actually important. It’s not like he’s about to start riding around in the presidential motorcade on day one: the agents that end up on the president’s detail are tested, on the top of their game, and veterans of the Service. Tommy’s sure as hell that the guys protecting President Obama don’t get butterflies in their stomach walking into work.

He’s expecting something simple, and that’s exactly what he gets: some low level speechwriter who needs a tail. Tommy’s not exactly surprised that the end of training and the beginning of his “real job” comes with yet another exam. Not that he’s thrilled at the thought of having to jump through yet another hoop. He’s jumped through several thousand at this point. Hasn’t he proved himself enough?

“Mr. Lovett’s gotten some curious attention recently,” Gilstrap explains, showing Tommy a series of threatening letters that have been sent to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue as of late. Most of the letters are in reference to Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell repeal, which the letter writer vehemently opposes, but some of them also address the speechwriter’s Jewish background as well. “We need you on top of things.” Gilstrap grins at Tommy, the whiteness of his smile rather unsettling. “Consider it a road test.”

Despite already knowing how much of a wunderkind Jon Favreau is, it’s still a little startling to see someone that young as the Director of Speechwriting. Tommy can’t be more than a few years older than him. He’s got a slight gap in his front teeth, which Tommy supposes is kind of endearing. It doesn’t hurt that he’s like, a couple of pounds of baby fat away from being Ken doll good-looking. His head is shaved, which is certainly a choice. Maybe he’s going prematurely bald and wants to hide it. Regardless, Tommy decides Favreau would look better with hair.

Right on that thought, Favreau looks up from his keyboard to stare up at Tommy. “Is something wrong?” Favreau asks in a concerned voice, looking him up and down like he’s the Grim Reaper. And then Tommy remembers, _Oh yeah, you look like fucking Doomsday because you’re in Secret Service garb. Of course he thinks that you’re here to tell him to get in some kind of nuclear bunker_. 

“No,” Tommy starts, and then corrects himself. “Well, kind of.” _You’re Service, act like it, Vietor_. Tommy stands up a little straighter. “Special Agent Vietor, reporting for detail on Mr. Lovett, sir.”

Favreau’s eyes widen. “Oh, shit. You’re the guy.”

“I’m the guy, sir,” Tommy confirms.

Favreau pulls out his phone and starts texting someone. “He’ll come down here, and then you guys can hit it off,” he tells Tommy without looking up from his messages. Within a couple minutes, Tommy turns to see another man on what appears to be a bright orange Razor scooter flying down the hallway. He comes to a stop in front of Favreau’s desk rather unceremoniously, like he tried to make it look cool but almost completely ate it in the carpeting.

He’s far shorter than Tommy, and unlike most of the manicured men of DC, has a pile of unruly curls sitting atop his head. He’s wearing a suit that looks a little thin and worn, like it came up against the campaign trail and lost. Again, Tommy is struck by how _young_ Lovett is. If things had worked out differently, the three of them could have been contemporaries. 

“This is the guy,” Favreau informs Lovett. “Also, no scooters in the White House, for _fuck’s sake_ , Lovett.”

“Special Agent Tommy Vietor, sir,” Tommy says, striding across the room and sticking out his hand for Lovett to shake. “Reporting for duty.” He nearly winces: he sounds _very_ official and _very_ awkward. Lovett does his best to make the handshake as short as possible, which Tommy appreciates.

“How long have you been working for the Secret Service, Tommy?” Lovett asks, looking up at Tommy disdainfully.

“It’s, uh, it’s actually my first day, sir,” Tommy blurts out, and that’s _probably_ not the answer he should have gone with. Something along the lines of _I’ve been working under supervision in the White House for weeks and have gone through extensive training to get here_ would probably have gone over better than _I’m a novice, enjoy_.

Lovett looks at Favreau from around Tommy’s shoulder. “Awesome. I’m going to die, and you’re _one-hundred percent_ not in the will, Favs.”

 

* * *

 

The past week has been painfully slow, in Tommy’s eyes. Mostly he’s had the opportunity to test the waters with his charge. Overall, Tommy has found that Lovett lives in a world of sarcasm and wit, and Tommy finds himself both trying to catch up, joke-wise, as well as supremely bored in terms of the threat level. Nothing has been amiss. Tommy hasn’t had to do anything besides follow Lovett around all day and be the victim to his mostly terrible jokes.

“The boss says if he’s going to the state dinner, _everyone’s_ going to the state dinner, which means _I’m_ going to the state dinner,” Lovett explains. “Even if my presence is about as required as parmesan cheese on pasta: it’s preferred, but certainly not necessary.”

“And some people are lactose intolerant, sir,” Tommy points out.

“Yes,” Lovett says flatly. “And some people literally cannot stomach me. Thanks for the reminder, Special Agent.”

“You are, as always, very welcome, sir.”

They’re in Lovett’s apartment, and Tommy’s pulling overtime, as are most Secret Service agents tonight. Lovett, thankfully, lives alone, making security on his place far easier than if Tommy had to account for another body. “It’s not ideal,” Lovett admitted to him one evening. “The rent is wacko and the space is criminally small. Also, I hate hearing the sound of myself think, which is pretty easy to do without a roommate running around.”

“You think loudly, sir?”

“I swear to god, Tommy, if you call me sir again I’m going to stick this American flag pin into your eye.”

Lovett pointedly attaches the pin to his lapel with real gusto when Tommy shrugs, as if to reply, _you can certainly try_.

It’s about as open as Lovett has been with Tommy since the beginning of the detail. Sometimes Lovett consults Tommy on various insults he’s preparing to sling on Twitter— “How does _dotty old racist_ sound to you? Too on the nose?”—but mostly he attempts to ignore the fact that Tommy is there at all. Which Tommy gets. It’s not like he’s there to hang out. He’s there for a fairly morbid reason, and he understands why Lovett would want to just forget about his presence entirely.

The state dinner is full of foreign diplomats from Luxembourg and Belgium. Tommy spots Dan on the First Lady’s detail and tries not to feel jealous.

“Do I have a code name?” Lovett asks discreetly, buttoning his cuffs with a put-on disinterest that Tommy sees through straight away. Lovett, from his week of observation, is far too self-absorbed to not be fascinated by himself at every turn.

“Yes, sir,” Tommy nods, suppressing a smile as Lovett twitches at the _sir_ yet again.

Lovett looks up at him over his shoulder with an expectant expression. “So, what is it?”

Instead of replying, Tommy simply lifts his wrist to his mouth and reports a quiet, “Tangent is in the White House. I repeat, Tangent is in the White House.”

The Secret Service code names generally have to do with something in the person’s past: the college they went to, or the state they were born in, or something to do with their work. “Can we just pretend that’s a really cool code name and not horrifyingly nerdy?” Lovett mutters tightly. “Because I really am not going to be able to stand it if history marks me down as the math nerd whose proudest achievement is his goddamn college thesis.” 

Tommy quirks his head. He had assumed that the name had been bestowed due to Lovett’s motormouth antics taking him to new and unrelated conversations. “I graduated from Williams with a degree in math,” Lovett says slowly, as if talking to someone with the IQ of a chair. Tommy assumes he’s about to ream into him for making assumptions when a good looking man approaches Lovett with a drink.

“Brad, you are a saint,” Lovett sighs in relief, taking the glass and chugging half of it. “How’s the DOJ treating you these days?”

Tommy makes himself as nondescript as possible, just a few steps behind Lovett, but it’s kind of hard to be nondescript when you’re over six feet tall. Brad’s eyes dart to Tommy, giving him a once over before turning back to Lovett. “I assume he’s because of the thing,” Brad says placidly.

“You know, I’m not even mad about someone trying to kill me,” Lovett sighs. “It’s just so annoying having a tag-a-long all the time.” Tommy tries not to bristle. It’s not the first time Lovett has complained about Tommy’s presence, but Tommy knows the truth: he’s seen the slight fear in Lovett’s eyes when Tommy’s not in his line of sight. So Lovett can go on and on about how Tommy is _harshing his vibe_ , or whatever.

Tommy’s not fucking stupid.

“At least he’s hot,” Brad commiserates.

At that, Tommy feels himself flush all over. It’s something he’s always hated about himself: that full-body blush that seems to spread from the apples of his cheeks down through his chest. Lovett is looking at him in confusion, but Brad from the DOJ seems to be near laughter. Tommy doesn’t know which expression he likes less.

“I think we’ve turned your bodyguard into a tomato, Jon,” Brad laughs. “Tragically straight?” He asks the question not to Tommy but to Lovett, like Tommy really is some statue in the background. And sure, Tommy’s been trained to stay in the shadows, to disengage. But he’s still a fucking human being.

“Knowing my luck,” Lovett mutters, but he slants his gaze sideways to Tommy, an eyebrow raised, and Tommy feels his blush deepen.

“A pity,” Brad sighs.

It’s not like Lovett and Tommy have ever discussed Tommy’s goddamn _sexuality_. Why would they? And if Lovett _did_ ask, when Tommy was _off_ duty, Tommy _might_ admit that he is indeed very bisexual. To be honest with himself, Tommy doesn’t know if he’d even want to spend time with Lovett if it wasn’t mandated by his damn detail. Tommy has met people like Jon Lovett before: they set his fucking brain on fire, and not in a fun, exciting way, but in a way that makes it impossible to _think straight_. But right now, at this state dinner, Tommy is very much _on_ the job, he has to be _professional_ and Lovett makes that just—just fucking _impossible_ , really—

Tommy’s earpiece comes to life. “ _We have a fence jumper. Agent Vietor, Tangent’s safety is compromised. Rendezvous at the nearest safe house._ ”

His training kicks in before his brain does. Tommy doesn’t get any pleasure elbowing Brad from the DOJ out of the way, but the tiny _oof_ that Lovett lets out as Tommy grabs him around the shoulders to hurtle him down the main hall makes Tommy’s heart beat a little faster.

“Someone jumped the gate, sir, we need to get out of here,” Tommy hisses in Lovett’s ear, taking a quick left, running past various diplomats and their underlings. His hand is on Lovett’s shoulder, squeezing tightly as Lovett just nods. 

The getaway car is parked just where Tommy knows it’ll be: Ana is in the driver’s seat, and Tommy nods at her once he’s thrown the two of them in the backseat. She floors it, and Tommy can hear the screech of tires against pavement scream out into the night.

Lovett’s brow has a sheen of sweat on it that glimmers in the low light of the car. He raises his hand in front of his face, exposing the nervous shaking of his fingers. “Holy shit,” he gasps out, looking over at Tommy. “So that’s what you’re here for.”

Tommy nods. “That’s what I’m here for.” 

Tommy begins a physical assessment, looking over Lovett’s person for any injuries incurred during their escape. He reaches for the buttons on Lovett’s shirt for better visualization, but Lovett seems to come back to himself, catching Tommy’s wrist. “Usually I wait for the second date before getting too handsy,” he heaves out, still trying to catch his breath. “But I’m flexible.”

“No shots fired, Tommy, just leave him alone,” Ana calls from the front seat.

Tommy backs off, leaning back in his own seat to breathe. He lifts his wrist to his mouth and reports into his radio, “Tangent is off premises and en route to safe house.”

“ _Good work, Agent Vietor_. _We’ll keep you in the loop_.”

“Jesus,” Lovett says quietly. Internally, Tommy agrees. He’s never done anything like this before for real: he’s had thousands of hours of training in both Georgia and Maryland, but practicing for an extraction and actually doing one are two very different things. In practice, Tommy found his brain working at its highest gear: _check every corner, look for snipers, find the path of least resistance to the extraction point_. In the real world, Tommy had one thought in his brain, and not a very helpful one at that: _protect_.

It’s sad that all his training boiled down to instinct and intuition. But maybe that’s what the training is about. Not everyone comes in with great instincts. No: they have to be instilled. Drilled into your head until you don’t have to think about it, you just _do_.

“I thought you were Jewish, sir,” Tommy asks with a smile, trying to lighten the heaviness of the mood and get out of his own head for a minute or two.

Lovett chokes out a quiet laugh, and Tommy can feel the world quietly righting itself back on its proper axis. “Christ, Tommy, it’s a fucking expression.”

 

* * *

 

Tommy has Ana cover Lovett outside while he inspects the safe house. He leads with his gun, checking every nook and cranny of the sparsely furnished apartment. That’s something else the Service teaches you: paranoia. Intense, unrelenting paranoia. Tommy ends up scouring the place twice before he shouts out a quick, “We’re good.”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Lovett says as Ana shepherds him inside. “Wait a second. Does this place have wi-fi?”

The apartment does not have wi-fi, and Lovett spends the next fifteen minutes complaining about ruining his data plan.

“Stay here until you get the all clear,” Ana instructs Tommy before she leaves. “We should be good to move him by morning.”

Lovett shrugs out of his jacket, leaving it hanging on a chair by the table, and Tommy tries not to eye the areas where Lovett’s white shirt has soaked through with sweat: the fabric at the small of his back is stuck to the skin, and the area around the collar looks damp as well.

Tommy stations himself with his back to the wall, with a vantage point on both the door and the windows. Paranoia one-oh-one. 

“So, uh,” Lovett starts, breaking the quiet between them. “A thank you is in order, I think.”

“Just doing my job, sir.” Tommy peels off his own jacket, revealing the straped holster that crosses in the middle of his back. He tucks his gun back into place and turns to see Lovett staring at him.

“I know,” Lovett says, and his voice sounds tight in his throat, like the words are hard to get out—which may very well be a fucking first for him. “Thank you.”

Lovett’s fingers are still shaking, so Tommy decides to offer him an olive branch. He’s not _cruel_. “You wanna tell me about your thesis, sir?” he probes kindly. If he can get Lovett’s mind off of what happened, he’ll probably calm down enough to sleep.

Lovett bristles a little, but drags a chair over to where Tommy is sitting. “What do you know about non-Euclidian geometry?”

“Illuminate me,” Tommy grins in the dark.

The next hour is filled with explanations about Day’s theorem, as well as Tommy looking up Lovett’s commencement speech online and dramatically reading it aloud while Lovett winces at his past self. “You thought you were so clever,” Tommy laughs, and Lovett flips him off. 

“I _am_ clever, asshole,” Lovett preens. “That speech, though—maybe not my best work, I’ll admit it.”

Tommy shrugs. “You were a kid.”

Lovett leans his head back against the wall. “Whatever. My old writing, ninety-nine percent of the time, always makes me cringe.” He glares at Tommy. “Tell no one that. I have a narcissistic reputation to uphold.”

Tommy nods. “Well, what’s something you wrote that you still like?”

Lovett stares out in the quiet darkness of the apartment and holds the silence in his court for a few minutes before finally admitting, “You know the President’s speeches on repealing Don’t Ask Don’t Tell?”

Tommy’s heart feels like it’s in his throat. He turns toward Lovett, who is staring off into the middle distance, like he’s trapped in a memory. “ _It’s the right thing to do_ ,” Tommy echoes to himself in a low voice. 

He remembers watching the State of the Union while he was still in SATC, surrounded by his peers, many of whom were veterans, wondering if they’d react poorly. Tommy hadn’t been particularly in _or_ out of the closet during training, but he’s always had the privilege of being someone who could pass. So he hadn’t expected anyone to say anything supportive, let alone supportive of _him_. Sometimes it’s good to give people the opportunity to be kind. 

“‘Bout fuckin’ time,” Dan had muttered, the only one to break the silence in the barracks. At the time, Tommy had nearly cried in relief that at least one person in the Service gave a shit about him, about people like him.

“You wrote that?” Tommy asks Lovett quietly.

“Not just me,” Lovett replies. “Favs drafts most of the shitshow that’s the State of the Union, and the President is by far our best speechwriter. He makes all the final edits. But yeah. That part was me.” Lovett is looking at Tommy a little askance, and Tommy has to turn away.

“I know you’re not a vet, or in the Service,” Tommy says quietly, “but I hope you know what that meant to the people who were. Who are,” Tommy adds hastily. He takes a deep breath before continuing, with a note of finality, “Like me.” It’s not the easiest way to come out to someone, but it is certainly _a_ way, if vague and rather roundabout.

A discerning eye falls on Tommy before Lovett lets out a quiet _huh_. “Awesome,” Lovett says, effectively destroying the tension. “Brad owes me fifty bucks.”

 

* * *

 

Tommy gets the all clear in the early hours of the morning, while Lovett’s still asleep on the mattress in the corner.. He lets Lovett sleep for another hour before walking over and gently shaking him awake.

“I can take you home now,” Tommy says in his quietest voice, the one he saves for children and the traumatized.

“Promises, promises,” Lovett says sleepily into the mattress.

 

* * *

 

The conference room where Lovett, Favreau, and the rest of the speech writing staff are holed up smells so distinctly like Chinese food that Tommy is probably ingesting MSG through his fucking pores. It’s been around a month since the state dinner. Tommy doesn’t _hope_ for threats against his charge, but it does seem like ever since that night, Lovett has started to respect him more. Not that the jokes lessen or the complaining stops, but now Tommy is in on the joke. Lovett includes him in the conversation, rather than referring to Tommy like a piece of fancy furniture: pretty, but lifeless. Tonight, they’re drafting out the Correspondents Dinner address over the course of three days, and Tommy has decided that he never wants to hear another birth certificate joke again. 

“Can we be done?” Lovett asks. His forehead is glued to the mahogany table and he appears to be directly speaking to the ground.

“I don’t know, does this speech seem done?” Favreau asks sarcastically, gesturing out at the heavily scribbled upon drafts strewn across the table in various iterations. “Also, just checking, does anyone sitting at this table think Zoolander is still relevant?”

Lovett flips the world off and Tommy has to hold in a laugh. It’s times like these that Tommy’s glad he’s just a glorified bodyguard on a fairly simple detail. Favs catches his smirk, though. “What, you think you can do better, Mr. Bond?”

“Be nice to Tommy,” Lovett says, still face down. “I’ve never been so politely manhandled by anyone in my entire life.” He pauses. “Well, maybe once, and under _very_ different circumstances—”

“Tommy, tell me you’re a secret comedian just waiting to make it big,” Favreau pleads loudly over Lovett’s overly detailed, rather explicit descriptions.

“I’m just here to look good, Mr. Favreau,” Tommy says with a grin.

“Okay, first: you’re my bodyguard, you can call him Favs; and second, that _was_ funny,” Lovett smiles, finally raising his head and leaning back to stare at Tommy. “Third, you _are_ smart, you went to Oberlin or some shit. So help us before I have to do something drastic, like crack into the second tub of orange chicken.”

“Kenyon,” Tommy corrects. “And that stuff will clog your arteries.”

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride,” Lovett sighs dramatically, popping open another plastic container of food.

Ana relieves him around midnight. “You’re a godsend,” Tommy tells her frankly.

“I know,” she smirks at him. “Get some rest, Vietor.”

Tommy’s apartment is spartan but clean, and he does himself the disservice of peeling off his suit and leaving it crumpled up on the floor. His exhaustion is making him lazy, Tommy decides. His phone has buzzed three times since he left the White House, and as he curls up under the covers, he finally takes a look at his home screen.

He has three messages from Lovett in succession.

**[12:31 AM] Jon Lovett: I literally cannot believe you left me here to rot**

**[12:32 AM] Jon Lovett: Super unprofessional.**

**[1:03 AM] Jon Lovett: What’s the point of having a bodyguard if you won’t rescue me when I’m in need. Think about THAT, Tommy**

Tommy taps his phone open and thinks for a moment before replying.

**[1:39 AM] Tommy Vietor: I’m off-duty. Some of us do shift-work, you know.**

Almost immediately, like Lovett is waiting on his text, he gets a reply.

**[1:41 AM] Jon Lovett: How off-duty are we talking here? Only because I have some ideas about how you can kill time until you’re back on the clock.**

**[1:42 AM] Jon Lovett: Come hang out, we’re going to drink our worries away.**

Tommy frowns. It’s not possible that Lovett is inviting him out for a drink right now. 

**[1:43 AM] Tommy Vietor: I’m in bed, Lovett. Good night.**

Tommy plugs his phone in and turns off his lamp, embracing the ambient light of late night DC.

**[1:45 AM] Jon Lovett: Okay, be there soon.**

Tommy rolls his eyes.

**[1:47 AM] Tommy Vietor: You’re not invited.**

_Ping._

**[1:50 AM] Jon Lovett: Tommy, live a little.**

“Shut up,” Tommy says out loud in the darkness of his bedroom. He tosses his phone off the side of the bed and closes his eyes, ashamed to find his ears desperately yearning to hear another _ping_ of his text message alert.

An hour later, Tommy is restless and still hideously, tragically awake.

He throws himself into the shower, turning the spigot to near scalding. He’s always liked lukewarm showers, but sometimes you just need to burn the day off your skin. The mirror before him begins to fog as he strips off his underwear, and Tommy takes a look in his reflection, scowling at himself. _This has to do it for someone_ , he thinks darkly before heading into the steam of the shower.

_Tommy, live a little_. Tommy can practically hear Lovett’s voice in his head as he takes himself in hand. Shame tingles down his back, but he doesn’t let go, just moves his hand gently up and down his shaft. Hell, he’s already half-hard.

He shouldn’t think about Lovett ranting about meals on wheels to get himself off. He certainly shouldn’t think about how Lovett is always chewing on the ends of his pens, the train of his incessant oral fixation always chugging away. If there aren’t words flowing through that thick skull of his, he’s biting his nails or chewing gum or something else equally as distracting. Tommy absolutely shouldn’t be thinking about Lovett bending down in front of him to pick up his fucking _phone_ —

“Fuck,” Tommy gasps aloud, water dripping down his open lips.

It’s incredibly compromising and very fucked up. It just is. Even if Lovett’s provocative and charming and genuine in ways that Tommy hasn’t encountered in a long time, if ever. Tommy lets the water drip down his chest, wiping away the evidence of his shitty life choices.

 

* * *

 

Looking Lovett in the eye the next day is more difficult than Tommy had anticipated. Part of him, perhaps a deluded part, had thought that if he just got it out of his system he’d be able to _focus_.

Instead, he’s even more distracted than before. Every aspect of Lovett has been hypersexualized in his brain, and it’s honest to God not fair that Tommy has twelve hours of this shift before he can go home and give his dick the attention it deserves.

“Late night?” Lovett asks casually as Tommy arrives to relieve Ana. “Those bags under your eyes aren’t doing you any favors.”

“Good luck, he’s a handful, as always,” Ana says, loud enough for Lovett to overhear.

“Get some sleep, Ana,” Favs calls out from his desk.

“I’m a _delight_ ,” Lovett calls after her as she walks away. “Tell the people I’m a delight,” Lovett tells Tommy, gesturing at the tour walking through their offices, all decorated with telltale visitor badges.

Tommy’s hackles automatically raise, and he moves in front of Lovett, which, of course, Lovett notices. “Oh, come on. They’re gifted high schoolers, not a group of homophobic sociopaths. Whoever sent those letters is definitely at least thirty, balding, and did not graduate college.”

“What, are you an FBI profiler now?” Tommy asks blithely, still on edge.

“Lovett, can you just let the nice man do his job?” Favs nearly begs.

“The nice man is paranoid as hell,” Lovett grumbles, sitting back down at his desk behind his computer.

When the tour group leaves, Tommy exhales. 

“You need a Xanax, Tommy,” Lovett tells him plainly. “You need a lot of Xanax.”

Tommy doesn’t exactly disagree.

 

* * *

 

 

“Not that I don’t enjoy your presence, Tommy,” Lovett drawls over his burger in the cafeteria. “But is there any idea of a timeline? When we’re going to catch whatever weird, obsessed psycho is sending all these frankly rather flattering letters?”

“Not really my area,” Tommy explains. “That’s more FBI. I’m just in charge of making sure you stay safe.”

“So you remain, as always, a glorified bodyguard,” Lovett sighs.

“The Secret Service does other things besides protective detail,” Tommy points out.

“Are you allowed to tell me about it, stud?” Lovett asks, batting his eyelashes accordingly. “Considering everything’s so _secret_ , you know. Secret Service. You get it, right?”

“We do financial fraud investigations,” Tommy says with an eye roll.

“ _Fascinating_ ,” Lovett says, sarcasm dripping through the word like honey falling off a spoon. He has ketchup at the edge of his lips. “Must be your true calling. Tommy Vietor’s ultimate goal: get me on that fraud shit.”

“It’s _fine_ ,” Tommy says tightly, truly incredulous that he’s defending the Secret Service to the Deputy Director of Speechwriting at the White House. Lovett still has ketchup at the edge of his lips. “You know. Nothing to write home about, but it needs to be done. And sometimes we catch real bigwigs.” Distraction building, Tommy hands Lovett a napkin. “You’ve got a little—”

“Here?” Lovett asks, running his tongue along his mouth. Lovett’s eyebrows waggle a little.

It’s near pornographic. But it’s also very stupid, and it’s the kind of thing that Tommy should not be so fucking susceptible to, and yet. He is. He really fucking is.

And he’s starting to grasp that Lovett knows it.

“Cool it,” is all Tommy trusts himself to say.

“What, so I can’t flirt with my hot bodyguard?” Lovett asks delicately, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin.

“Don’t call me that,” Tommy says tightly.

“Bodyguard? Or hot?” Lovett probes. “That’s censorship, Tommy. We’re all about free speech in this White House.”

He knows he’s flushing, because Lovett’s got that fucking smug look on his face. “Both,” Tommy grits out. “Eat your damn burger.”

“Bossy,” Lovett says, raising his eyebrows in faux-shock. “Obviously, I like it.” He finishes his burger quickly enough, and Tommy is thankful for the blessed silence Lovett eating brings.

“Gotta take a leak,” he tells Tommy, who trails Lovett as he dumps his tray in the trash of the cafeteria. “Or is that too provocative for you?” Tommy gives him a scathing look as they turn down the hallway together.

Tommy leads the way inside the bathroom, which is horrifyingly empty. Tommy hates being alone with Lovett, especially with him in this kind of mood. He’s dangerous and Tommy knows it. Everything about being in here with Lovett screams risk, and when Tommy turns to see Lovett no where near the urinals, he gulps.

“Okay, so there’s something I want to try,” Lovett tells him frankly. “Might not be your thing.” He steps toward Tommy. “Might be, though.”

Everything in Tommy’s head screams _bad idea_ , but when Lovett takes a hold of Tommy’s lapels, something short circuits in the part of Tommy’s brain that does rational thinking. Lovett runs a thumb over the American flag pin on Tommy’s jacket, slow and soft. “I have unparalleled intuition about this kind of thing,” Lovett says conspiratorially, walking Tommy backwards into a stall and kicking the door closed behind them. 

Fantasizing about kissing Jon Lovett is a lot different than actually kissing Jon Lovett. For example, not a lot of Tommy’s daydreams involve a toilet bowl in the near vicinity, but reality is often less pretty than the imaginings of a horny Secret Service agent.

Lovett tastes like the salt of the fries he just ate, and Tommy hates that he finds that absolutely disgusting fact kind of endearing. _He’s stupefying_ , Tommy decides as Lovett slides his tongue into his mouth. _He’s the kind of guy that makes you stupid about him._ Tommy lets out a quiet groan, mostly because he can’t help it. This feels good, and Tommy thinks darkly that it shouldn’t.

Choosing to do this, here, with Lovett, is a stupid choice. Anyone could walk into the bathroom and they’d be seriously screwed. Tommy would lose his job, in addition to being a fucking disgrace to the Secret Service. Lovett would probably face his own consequences: firing, probation, whatever Favreau thought was appropriate.

And then Lovett makes a sound between a whine and a moan, and the nervous static of Tommy’s mind flickers out entirely.

Lovett has a hand threaded into Tommy’s hair, nails scratching his scalp like he’s staking a claim. And Tommy wants him to, _God_ , Tommy wants him to. He wants him there in his arms, and back home in his bed, and everywhere in between. It’s a shocking thought in Tommy’s head that quietly blends away into the soft feeling of kissing someone who wants to kiss you back, desperately, and with reckless abandon.

There are a lot of words for this feeling: infatuation, lust, physical attraction. It feels so _teenage_ , grabbing at each other with juvenile delight. Tommy has Lovett pressed up against a locked bathroom stall door, one leg slotted between Lovett’s thighs. He’s greedy now, his fingertips running behind the band of Lovett’s slacks. These are the things he hasn’t allowed himself to think about: the flush on Lovett’s cheeks while he’s being ravished, the heat of Lovett’s breath on his lips. 

“Fuck,” Tommy whispers, breaking away.

“No, no, come back,” Lovett pouts, reaching up on his tiptoes to continue making out. He looks wrung out on a hazy mix of lust and impertinence— _did I say you could stop?_ —and Tommy doesn’t want to deny him.

“Wait,” Tommy breathes against his lips. Lovett makes a noise that hums against his skin pleasantly. “We need too—this isn’t the best place—”

Something heavy drops outside the bathroom door (a briefcase, or maybe a stack of books) and Tommy spooks, jumping backwards out of Lovett’s arms. The door stays blessedly shut, but it’s enough of a scare to break them apart. No one needs to get caught _in flagrante delicto_ at the White House today. Or ever, really.

“Okay, alright,” Lovett says, putting his hands up in defeat. The stalemate achieved, the two of them stare at each other until Lovett finally smirks. “Not to be smug about this, but I love being just super, super right.”

 

* * *

 

If things were insufferable before their bathroom incident, the situation now is fucking _impossible_. Everything Lovett does makes Tommy want to kiss him. And, of course, since The Incident, Lovett has gotten even bolder in his antics, which Tommy wants to hate but, of course, secretly adores.

Sometimes Tommy thinks about the day the FBI finally catches the asshole sending Lovett threats, thinks about when he won’t be forced to spent twelve hours a day at his side. “Who will listen to you complain then, huh?” he asks Lovett, voicing the thought aloud.

“Favs, probably,” Lovett says blithely, before looking up from the _Washington Post_ at Tommy. “Hey, are you already imagining a future without me? For shame. You’ll be so fucking bored.”

But Tommy can’t help it: he’s a worrier, and has always been a worrier. It’s part of what makes him an excellent candidate for the Secret Service: his anxious nature causes him to triple check if his oven is off at home, but it also gained him a nearly perfect score on his written evaluations. He spent _months_ studying, driven by fear of failure and paranoia that every question was a trick question. 

A lot of them _were_ trick questions.

Fuck, Tommy really _does_ need some Xanax.

Lovett looks him over from behind his newspaper and exhales heavily before folding it up in a crinkled mess on his desk.

“I can’t believe I’m the one receiving death threats and I’m the one telling _you_ to relax,” Lovett sighs, pulling Tommy into the abandoned office of Jon Favreau by the belt-loop. Tommy is fairly certain that Favs would murder anyone who defiled his office, but strangely enough, Tommy finds that he is far warier of Favs’s Deputy than Favs himself.

“I’m pretty sure this is the most heavily surveilled building in the world,” Tommy says weakly, letting Lovett tug him inside. He makes sure to lock the door behind them. “And you’re kind of...cavalier about all this. Just to remind you, I could lose my job. _You_ could lose your job.”

Lovett hums in distant curiosity, looking Tommy up and down. “Well. Better make it worth the risk.”

Tommy isn’t proud of the noise he makes when Lovett drops to his knees. “Thought so,” Lovett says with a shrug, and reaches for Tommy’s belt.

 

* * *

 

When Lovett accepts a gig at the local community college, Tommy scoped the venue himself beforehand. It’s an easy enough building to keep secure, and it won’t just be Tommy in the field: Dan and Ana are tagging along as extra bodies, which makes Tommy feel a lot better about taking Lovett off the premises.

“I can’t not live my life, Tommy,” Lovett had said before they’d left the White House, rather sanctimoniously. “You know what happens then? The terrorists _win_.”

“You’re such a brat,” Favs commented, taking the words right out of Tommy’s mouth.

“In _this_ White House? We don’t let the turkeys get us down,” Lovett had replied primly. “We triumph over hate. _Yes we can_. That’s how the slogan goes, right?”

Lovett hasn’t received threats from the maniac in question for weeks now, and Tommy can feel himself getting complacent. Lovett has been chipping away at Tommy’s built-in paranoia since day one. Maybe that makes him a lesser Secret Service agent, but it also makes him a healthier human being. Tommy’s not sure which version of himself he prefers. 

“This detail was good for getting your toes wet,” Dan tells him, and Tommy stares out pointedly at the road, trying not to flush. “You get in-House work _and_ stuff on the road. A nice mix.”

“Tommy will tell you that he _loves_ this assignment,” Lovett calls out from the back seat. “I’m a peach. Super easy detail.”

Dan raises his eyebrow at Tommy from the passenger seat. “I’m sure, sir,” he says drily.

The kids they meet are great: most of them are part of the college’s writing program, and Lovett is self-deprecating and kind in the ways you want all your heroes to be when you meet them in person. It gives Tommy this fond feeling in his gut, knowing that Lovett has the capacity for genuine connection with people who look up to him.

The meet and greet portion of the day is intense but fun. Lovett introduces Tommy to a few people who look at him over Lovett’s shoulder warily.

“How do you join the Secret Service?” one sophomore asks him when she reaches the front of the line, completely uninterested by Lovett’s antics.

“It’s a secret,” Tommy jokes. The young woman smiles, and Lovett pokes Tommy in the side.

“Real answers, come on,” Lovett nods.

“You’re on the right path already,” Tommy explains. “Get your degree, and then send me an email. There are a lot of steps and I don’t want you to get lost in the process.” He scribbles his dot-gov email address on a napkin for her, and she beams at him before walking away.

When Tommy turns back to Lovett, he’s looking at Tommy with such an intense expression of affection that Tommy can feel his cheeks turning pink. Lovett leans over to mutter in Tommy’s ear, “I don’t know why that was so hot, but it was. We better have a solo getaway car when this is all over. Unless, you know, Special Agent Dan wants a show.”

Tommy can feel his blush deepening as he pulls back to let Lovett take command again as the end of the line makes its way up to meet him.

The auditorium where Lovett is giving his speech is basically full. “The people love me,” Lovett grins at Tommy.

“Yeah,” Tommy smiles back, bumping his shoulder against Lovett’s. “They sure do.” He’s not talking about the people, and Tommy hopes Lovett can’t tell.

The auditorium is modestly large and fills about halfway, which is a decent audience for someone of Lovett’s notoriety. Tommy stations himself a few feet behind Lovett and starts scanning the crowd automatically. Most of the faces he remembers from the line-up beforehand. Tommy’s always been good with face-recognition.

The older guy with the shaved head in the back—that man he does not recognize. He doesn’t even look like a student—he’s too old for the demographic. He’s not even sitting down, just hovering by one of the fire exits. Does nobody else see him? Does nobody else think that he’s acting strangely? Maybe Tommy’s paranoid because he’s been on this beat for a long time, maybe he’s paranoid because now he has all these weird _feelings_ about Lovett. Regardless of the reason, Tommy is spooked.

“Good morning, students,” Lovett begins, his voice betraying the nervous shakiness that Tommy is honestly surprised to hear. It’s nice to know that in spite of Lovett’s aggressive put-on confidence, he still has on-stage jitters.

The hairs on the back of Tommy’s neck stand on end. Something’s wrong, or _weird_ , at least. 

_Over thirty and bald, definitely not a college student._ Lovett’s voice rings in his head like a warning bell.

The man that had pinged Tommy’s suspicions stands up a few sentences into Lovett’s speech, raises his hand, and Tommy spots the metallic glint of a gun—

And then he just moves.

* * *

 

 

“They shot you,” Lovett whispers from beneath Tommy. “ _They fucking shot you._ Tommy _—_ ”

“I’m fine,” Tommy grits out. “It’s fine.” He’s not fine, but he has to pretend until they have some fucking cover.

The screams and cries of college students are ringing throughout the auditorium. Tommy isn’t sure about any other injuries or casualties, but the gunshots had stopped pretty quickly after Tommy and Lovett had both gone down and Dan started yelling. Tommy racks his brain, trying desperately to remember protocol for a situation like this, but the pain is distracting. Instead, he can only think about how  that asshole had pointed a fucking gun at Lovett, how close it had been to _Lovett_ being shot.

“ _Tommy_ ,” he hears Dan over his earpiece. “ _Status on Tangent?_ ”

“Tangent is intact,” Tommy grunts out. “I’ve been hit, but I’m not down. I need back-up.”

“ _Gunman is down, we’re sweeping the grounds for any accomplices,_ ” Dan confirms. “ _If there’s a second shooter, we do not have eyes on him. Get cover_.”

“Get ready to run,” Tommy tells Lovett before pulling him up to stand with his good arm. His bad shoulder burns with pain, but he ignores it as much as he ignores the dark, crimson blood staining the floor. “ _Go go go_.”

They race out of the auditorium in tandem, Tommy with an eye over his shoulder glancing back at the chaos that lies in their wake. He doesn’t see any bodies on the ground, which comforts him.

Tommy shoulders his way into an empty classroom and deposits a shaking Lovett out of view of the one window embedded into the wall. “We’re secure in Room 5416,” he informs Dan over the radio, forcing himself to sound confident through the pain.

“Tommy,” Lovett says, panic coloring his voice. “Your chest.”

And that’s when Tommy finally looks down. His collared shirt is soaked through; he hadn’t noticed how much blood there was. “Must have hit an artery,” Tommy mumbles as his vision begins fade the edges.

He trips backwards and sinks down against the wall. Lovett is saying something to him, but it’s like his voice is travelling through water: everything sounds distant, as if Lovett is a thousand yards away.

“Stay here, Tommy,” Tommy hears Lovett plead with him desperately. And he wants to: _God_ , he wants to stay.

He feels Lovett trying to give pressure at the site of the wound, but if he says anything else, Tommy doesn’t hear it.

 

* * *

 

The telltale beeping of a hospital monitor is what wakes Tommy. Then the smell of swabbed sterility invades his nostrils, and Tommy reaches up to shield his eyes from the light as he as he blinks awake.

“Ow,” he grunts, having moved his bad arm.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty.” Tommy hadn’t expected Jon Lovett to be sitting bedside at Washington General, but he can admit he appreciates the friendly face.

“How long have I been out?” Tommy asks blearily. His mouth tastes weird and his throat is sore, like someone has scraped through it with a stick. He reaches his left hand up to his lips, and they’re so chapped that they feel like sandpaper against his fingertips. It doesn’t feel he’s been asleep for too long, but he’s definitely missing time.

“Day and a half,” Jon confirms. “You had surgery yesterday. They repaired whatever that fucking bullet ripped through. You lost, uh—” and Jon’s words stop for a second before he clears his throat. “You lost a lot of blood, Tommy.”

“Bullet to the shoulder seems like a really lame way to die,” Tommy attempts to joke, but Jon, for once in his life, doesn’t have even the hint of a smirk on his face.

“The really cool thing about the Secret Service is that if you die in the line of duty, you get to put something on your gravestone like, ‘ _He died protecting the First Lady of the United States_ ,’ or ‘ _She remained a true hero even in her last moments protecting the Vice President from deadly harm_.” Jon lets out a shaky breath, and Tommy wants to reach out and touch him more than anything. But Jon’s sitting across the room, away from the bed, his back to the window. The sunlight halos around Jon’s face so brightly that Tommy has to squint. “You shouldn’t have taken that bullet for _me_.”

Tommy’s reply is automatic, if not the entire truth. “I’d rather be dead than labeled a coward.” He’s saying words not his own: they’re the first thing Gilstrap had said to him in SATC. _Rather be dead than labeled a coward, son—that’s Secret Service one-oh-one._

“Yeah, well, I’d rather you alive and a coward, okay?” Jon says, and it’s almost a shout.

It’s a statement that sits strangely in Tommy’s court. Cowardice is something they beat out of you in training: you learn to think of your life as less than that of the ones you protect. It’s kind of fucked up, if Tommy thinks about it from an outside perspective. The instinct, however, that has been drilled into him since day one in CITP screams _there is such a thing as a good death if it means doing your job well_.

“It’s my job. _Sir_.” It’s a pitiful reply and Tommy knows it. Using the shield of _sir_ makes it even more unbearable. 

“Well, maybe you should find a new line of work,” Jon spits back. “Listen, secret agent man. I know a lot of shit, I’m a fucking smart dude. I work for the President of the United States, but you know, so do a lot of people. A lot of really dedicated, innovative, kind people. And I’m not that. I can be, if I try really hard, but it’s not my nature. So there’s no way in hell I deserve this,” he says, gesturing at Tommy as if that explains it all. “I’m just an assistant speechwriter! My _boss_ is the guy you should go take a bullet for.”

Tommy looks away from Jon. “Your boss is not my detail,” he replies quietly.

“You really want to die protecting _this?_ ” Jon asks in exasperation, gesturing to himself. He’s in a rumpled t-shirt that has seen better days. “God, either you’ve got some kind of fucking hero complex or you’re completely deluded.”

“People don’t die in the Secret Service,” Tommy snarls back angrily—and it’s mostly true. Only a couple of agents have actually been killed in the line of duty. Regardless, Tommy will _not_ be derided for believing in something.

In some _one_.

“Then how come every movie I’ve ever seen says _different_ ,” Jon argues. “ _J’accuse_.”

“Do I look dead to you, Lovett?” Tommy asks. He tries to sit up in his bed, but just ends up tugging on an IV. Hissing in pain, he adjusts himself and then turns back to Lovett, who is looking at him with sad eyes—which Tommy does not appreciate. “Did we get the guy?” Tommy finally asks, desperate to change the topic of conversation.

“Yeah,” Jon nods, looking down at his fingers. “Yeah, they got him. Just one crazy asshole.”

Tommy relaxes a little. “Good.”

“Yeah. It’s _super_ ,” Jon says, his voice bright with faux-cheerfulness that makes Tommy’s chest ache. He hops up from his perch near the windowsill and gathers his things from the various chairs lined up in the room. There’s a pile of sheets and blankets crumpled on the floor that Jon rummages through for his things, and Tommy frowns, trying to put two-and-two together through the haze of morphine. “I’ll see you around, Tommy,” Jon says, an edge of bitterness in his tone. Even if Tommy wasn’t hooked to about five-thousand wires and IVs, Tommy isn’t sure he would chase Jon down in this moment. “Excuse me,” Jon says tightly, barreling past the burly government appointed officer at the door. Tommy hears the squeaking noise of his footsteps disappear.

“Your visitor left?” a woman dressed in scrubs asks from the door of his room a few minutes after Jon is gone. She has an ID with a big RN at the edge. “He’s been bothering staff about you all night.”

“Sorry,” Tommy says rotely. He hadn’t realized that Lovett had slept there.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” the nurse says patiently. “That’s what family’s for.”

Tommy doesn’t have the energy to tell her that Jon’s not family. Hell, Tommy isn’t even sure if Jon’s his friend at this point. Their working relationship is at an end point, and whatever else had been between them was inappropriate at best and a fireable offense at worst. Their narrative has run its course. The chapter of Jon’s life that was punctuated by his presence is ending, and that’s the way it should be. He’s meant to be temporary. 

 

* * *

 

“Tell me you’re not excited,” Dan says, squeezing Tommy’s good shoulder with a broad hand. “The First Lady’s detail! Eventually. Once you’re on the up-and-up, of course. But _still_. That’s some fucking promotion, yeah?”

“He’s just pissed he’s gonna have to work with you, Dan,” Ana says conspiratorially.

It’s been almost four weeks since Tommy got shot. He’s still in a sling, but he’s making good progress. His physical therapist seems very confident that Tommy will be back in action within a few weeks at most. Tommy has attacked his physical therapy exercises the same way he attacks most things in his life: with the utter, intense focus of someone who hates being on the damn sidelines.

“Of course I’m excited,” Tommy says, trying to force a smile. His expression comes out as a cringe, which is just fucking great. Protecting the First Lady is, after all, the job he’d always dreamed of when he’d first joined the Service. Tommy just doesn’t know how to explain that the past few weeks have felt like he’s missed the last step of a staircase.

“Don’t be nervous,” Dan says seriously, misreading the hesitation in his voice. “You’re more than ready for it.”

As it turns out, life continues when you’re on the bench. The White House looks as busy as it did on the day Tommy left it. He doesn’t seek Lovett out, because why would he, but when Tommy spots Jon Favreau in the distances, he does make his way over.

“Buddy!” Favs says with a grin. He claps Tommy in a careful half-hug that avoids Tommy’s sling. “You’re looking better than ever.”

“It’s this new thing I’m trying—getting shot? Have you heard of it?” Tommy jokes.

Favs laughs. “Yeah, how’s that going for you?”

“Oh, it’s awesome,” Tommy says. “The ladies are really into battle scars.” It’s a weak comeback at best.

“And dudes, I’m told,” Favs says with a smirk.

Tommy grins back. “The whole gamut, then.”

“That’s a good word for a glorified bodyguard,” Favs says, thinning his eyes at Tommy. “You sure you’re in the right line of work?”

It’s a question Tommy has asked himself a lot since getting out of the hospital. “If I’m not, I just wasted a lot of time getting to the wrong finish line.” Tommy clears his throat as Favs looks at him with what seems to be pity, which Tommy does not accept. “I’ve been put on the First Lady’s detail,” he adds as a boast, but it comes out like an excuse. “You know. When I’m healed up.”

Favs sighs dramatically. “The First Family is poaching our best and brightest once again. Figures. The speechwriting staff will miss you, Tommy.” Tommy rolls his eyes but Favs continues. “Speaking of, have you talked to Lovett recently?”

Tommy has not spoken to Jon since the day he woke up from surgery, but he’s not sure he wants to reveal the fact that Jon was at his hospital bed to Favs. “No. Something wrong?”

“He’s fine. Just a little wigged after the attempt on his life, which is, you know, normal,” Favs says delicately. “I gave him the week off to find his bearings.”

“Good of you,” Tommy nods.

Faves shakes his head before taking Tommy’s good hand and grasping it in a strong handshake. “No, Tommy. _You_ were good.”

That’s just it, though. Tommy is tired of being told that he’s so _noble_ and _heroic_. He’s had the same few lines of praise thrown at him ad nauseum for the past near month. He’s not good, he’s not bad, he’s just a man doing a job he’s not even sure he likes anymore. Sure, the _idea_ of protecting the First Family has always seemed like the pinnacle of what it means to be in the Service. 

It doesn’t _feel_ right, though.

Favs seems to sense Tommy’s hesitation and backs off. “I already gave my spiel to Lovett about seeing a therapist, do I have to give you the same one?”

“Nah,” Tommy says quietly. “It’s mandated.” And it is. Tommy just hasn’t set up his appointment yet.

With a heavy sigh, Favs reaches into his pocket, and hands Tommy his card. “Secret Service agents can burn out. It’s common knowledge, so shut up,” Favs adds, as Tommy makes a sound of protest. “If you ever think about branching out.”

Tommy takes the card in his good hand and stares at it. “I’m not a writer,” he says blankly.

“Neither was Lovett, before I whipped him into shape,” Favs jokes. He lowers his voice conspiratorially and adds, “Actually, he was so good we hired him through an anonymous contest. Imagine my fucking horror that I’d just offered a job in the White House to the guy who wrote the attack speeches Hillary gave on the campaign trail.” Favs clasps Tommy by his good shoulder. “There’s a place for you in the White House if you want it.” He quirks his head at Tommy, considering him. “What are your thoughts on the NSC?”

* * *

 

Tommy doesn’t give Jon a courtesy text before he comes over to the apartment. He’s not sure _why_ , exactly. Maybe he wants to give himself the opportunity to back out if he loses his nerve.

_I’d rather be dead than labeled a coward_. Gilstrap’s words echo in his head, and they are, as always, a reminder to be brave.

He hears Jon through the door before he even knocks. He seems to be ranting to someone over the phone to the tune of, “I swear to your fucking Christian God, I’ve never seen anything more despicable in my entire life. Joe Lieberman should rot in hell for that flipflop on the fifty-five-plus Medicare buy-in. Tell me we’ll ruin him, Favs. Promise me some form of blacklisting.”

Jon’s voice pauses for all too brief a moment before starting up again. “It’s like he doesn’t realize that he’s raising costs for young, healthy people! This is giving me _angina_. When I die, blame my death on Joe Lieberman or so help me I will fucking haunt you. I don’t care if he wasn’t in the area.” He pauses and laughs. “Yeah, well, if I outlive you, something has gone terribly wrong and we can both forget about the posthumous Lieberman gag.”

Tommy knocks, and he hears Lovett walk towards the door. “Hold on, let me call you back, I think UPS is here.”

The door swings open, and there’s Jon, standing before him in pajama pants and a purple sweatshirt that has _Williams_ plastered in white letters across the chest. And for the first time in weeks, Tommy has a fucking purpose.

“Hey,” Tommy says, both feet planted on Lovett’s doormat.

“Hey,” Jon replies weakly. “You’re not UPS.”

“I’m not,” Tommy agrees. “Can I come in?”

Jon’s apartment is mildly cleaner than the last time he saw it in the hours before the state dinner. He leads Tommy over to the sofa, gesturing for Tommy to sit. “So,” Jon says, voice still uncharacteristically quiet. “You’re here.”

“I wanted to see you,” Tommy says plainly. He doesn’t want to beat around the bush anymore. “You weren’t at work, and Favs told me he’d sent you home.”

“Favs is a worrywart,” Jon says darkly.

“He’s a good guy and you know it,” Tommy points out.

“Well, obviously,” Jon agrees. “Otherwise I wouldn’t work for him.” Jon does not sit, but instead hovers, leaning against the kitchen island. The counter cuts into the small of his back and Tommy finds himself distracted looking for the curve he knows is there through Jon’s thick sweater. “Why are you here, really?”

“I didn’t like not seeing you,” Tommy says simply. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Jon bristles, like he doesn’t buy it. “I thought you were in a sling?” he questions, looking Tommy up and down.

“I thought you were my boyfriend,” Tommy replies quietly.

Jon practically chokes. “Okay, if you think that a couple of covert blowjobs in the White House makes me your—”

“Okay, maybe not a boyfriend. But hell, fucking _something_.” Tommy stands up. “If you’re not my boyfriend, then why did you spend the night at my _bedside_ in the hospital?” Jon’s mouth is agape, like for once, he has no response. Tommy doesn’t know why, but sitting down is just not conducive to getting the words out. “This probably sounds cheesy to you, and we both know I’m not the writer here,” Tommy ramps up, beginning to pace, “but I’ve spent the last _month_ coming to terms with the fact that life without you is _shit_.” He takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I liked protecting you, I liked being on your detail—because I like _you,_ dumbass.”

Jon looks pissed, and he pushes off from the kitchen island, getting in Tommy’s face. “Do you know how _hard_ it was not to text you over the past few weeks? Favs does, because I sent every text I wanted to send you to him, and he nearly murdered me for the trouble.” 

Tommy drags his hands down his face in aggravation. “Then what is the _issue_?”

“Tommy,” Jon says seriously. “If I’d gotten you killed, I would not have been able to live with myself.” Tommy tries to interject, but Jon holds up a hand. “Yes, I get that that didn’t happen, I get that you’re here, telling me all these emotional _things_ and being very tall and handsome, all of which I am being very noble in resisting, but _fuck_ , Tommy. You got hurt because of me. You could have died. I don’t need that kind of guilt on my head. Living with myself is already hard enough.” And at that, Jon’s expression breaks slightly. His eyes begin to water at the edges and Tommy can’t have that.

“Hey, no,” Tommy says quietly, stepping forward. Jon allows it, and Tommy takes advantage, wrapping Jon in his arms and letting him bury his face in Tommy’s chest.

“Why do you smell so _good?_ ” Jon groans into Tommy’s shirt.

“Genetics,” Tommy jokes, and he feels Jon laugh against him, and _that?_ That feels good. Feels right.

“I don’t want to worry about you,” Jon says, leaning back to look up at Tommy.

“Don’t, then,” Tommy says softly, before leaning down to nudge his nose against Lovett’s. It’s more a question than anything else.

“You know, strangely enough, I can’t help it,” Jon laughs shakily, and Tommy can feel Lovett’s breath against his lips.

  
Tommy takes a deep breath. “What if I told you I quit?”

Jon freezes. Then he steps back. “You _what?_ ” 

But Tommy doesn’t have a moment to explain further before Jon begins his tirade. “Are you telling me that you spent _years_ —actual _years_ —becoming a Secret Service agent, that you put yourself through intense physical and mental training to just _qualify_ for the job before they ever picked you—and you’re just _quitting?_ For _me?”_ Jon runs his hands through his curls, pulling at them in frustration. “God, Tommy, if you think we’re going to afford anything decent in this area on a one income salary, you’re not as smart as I thought you were—”

“We?” Tommy asks, coming to a full-stop. His heart feels like it’s in his throat.

“I mean, this place would certainly be cosy, but I think we’d grow out of it eventually,” Jon muses, his eyes bright. “Plus, I want a dog, so we need a backyard.”

Tommy can’t help but smile.

“I love dogs,” Tommy says genuinely. “And the pay at the NSC is double my current salary.”

Jon makes a quiet noise that, privately, Tommy adores. “Can you just kiss me already?”

There are three things Tommy knows for certain. First, it is better to be brave than cowardly, even when that bravery takes place in front of a person rather than in front of a bullet. Second, sometimes the things you want when you’re young change as you grow older, especially once the battle scars heal over. Third, when you find your person, you do your best to keep them.

It’s that simple.

Jon smells like his morning coffee, and Tommy can taste the next sixty years of his life on his tongue. Tommy’s future is not necessarily here in DC, but it is _here_ , with Jon, and that gives Tommy more comfort than anything. Where Jon goes, he will follow. He’s gotten rather good at that sort of thing.

Tommy rests a hand at the nape of Jon’s neck, the curls of his hair there turning and twisting against his fingertips. Lovett has grown his mop out a little over the past few months, and Tommy can’t help but tug a little at the now decent handhold. The whine this elicits makes Tommy shudder. “Bed,” Jon says darkly, shoving Tommy backwards out of the kitchen and into the hall.

They make it about halfway to Jon’s bedroom, pawing at each other like fucking teenagers, before Tommy has to pin Jon up against the wall. “Easy,” Lovett groans out as the wall behind them creaks. “I have annoying neighbors.”

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way,” Tommy says, tugging Jon’s sweater over his head and throwing it behind him, “but fuck your neighbors.”

Jon has his pants unbuckled in less than a second and Tommy takes advantage, cupping Jon’s dick over his underwear. He’s hard against his palm, and Tommy squeezes gently. “ _Fuck_ ,” Jon says quietly, his hips rolling against Tommy like a wave. “Fuck, fuck, okay—” and then Tommy’s on his knees in the hallway of Jon’s apartment, because he can’t fucking help it anymore.

Jon swears as Tommy takes his dick out of his pants entirely. “That’s a fucking view, right there,” he hisses as Tommy takes him into his mouth. “ _Christ_ , you look good like this.” Tommy hums, his mouth otherwise occupied. Jon quickly has a hand threaded into Tommy’s hair as Tommy settles into a groove. His fingers jerk and shake as Tommy brings him closer, and _fuck_ , Tommy loves making people come undone. 

“Fair warning, Tommy,” Jon grits out, his hips starting to move to the rhythm of Tommy’s machinations. Tommy nods, and Jon quickly loses control. It’s a different kind of blowjob than the ones they traded covertly—here, Tommy can take his time. Here, Tommy can savor the feeling of Jon coming undone. Before, the thrill of getting caught tinged every sexual experience they ever had. Now, this moment is for them—just them. Tommy likes it.

He swallows Jon down when he comes, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand in an easy gesture. “You’re like from porn,” Jon sighs dramatically, staggering away and making towards the bedroom, shedding his pants in the process which are already down to his knees.

Tommy follows.

Jon is naked and waiting before him and Tommy doesn’t want to waste any more time. He reaches to join Jon on the bed, but Jon wags his finger. “Nope. Get naked, special agent.”

He rolls his eyes at Jon but acquiesces, grabbing the bottom of his tee-shirt. Jon’s eyes dart to the skin of Tommy’s stomach and Tommy smirks a little, raising the shirt slowly, teasingly, before ripping it off entirely. Jon doesn’t say anything, blessedly, when Tommy reveals the red scar on his shoulder.

He has his finger on the button of his jeans when Jon stutters out an overwhelmed, “Mr. Vietor, I believe you’re trying to seduce me.”

“What gave it away?” Tommy smirks, shucking down his pants and underwear in one easy pull. The laugh that comes is nervous, and Tommy frowns. “Something wrong?”

“No,” Jon says vehemently, pulling Tommy down to meet him on the bed. “Nothing’s wrong.” Jon pushes Tommy to lie back, threading his fingers into Tommy’s hair. He kisses him there, sweetly, achingly, and Tommy’s heart hurts. “Except, you know, that you’re giving up your dream for me.”

“For such a smart guy, you’re a real idiot sometimes, Jon.” Tommy cups Lovett’s face in one hand. “Screw the Service, and, you know, maybe screw the White House. A job is just that—a job.” He rubs his thumb across Jon’s cheek before finally saying, “ _You_ are the dream.” And as he says it, he knows the words to be true.

Jon buries his head in the crook of Tommy’s neck, and when he pulls back, he has tears in his eyes. “You’re really not allowed to say shit like that and expect me not to cry,” Jon says accusatorily, but there’s joy in his voice that makes Tommy whole. “I’m a weak man, Tommy. I can only handle so much.”

Tommy makes a face and Jon laughs. “Okay,” Tommy nods, pulling Jon down to kiss him. “Less talking.”

The more Tommy loses himself in this moment, in Jon, the more sure he is of his decisions. This man is solid ground, as much as Tommy is certain Jon would like to protest. If he’s going to fix his flag somewhere, let it be here. Let it be with him.

Jon knows how he likes to be fucked, and Tommy is happy to learn. Someday, Tommy thinks, with two reaching fingers inside Jon, they’ll have enough practice that the sex will come as easily as breathing. It’s a heady thought, one that Tommy silently promises to make good on.

“Okay, come on,” Jon nods, and Tommy pulls his lubed fingers away while Jon reaches for a condom. He takes one look at Tommy’s dick and lets out a sigh. “I hate to tell you this, Tommy, but you’ve got a dick made for raunchy, dirty sex. _What_ is that going to do to your clean cut image?”

“How exactly does illicit sex in the White House and two fingers up your ass scream clean cut?” Tommy scowls, rolling on the condom that Jon tosses to him.

Jon shrugs, straddling Tommy’s hips. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re just easy for me.”

It’s a clearly true statement, considering the circumstances, but Tommy flushes deeply regardless. “There’s my guy,” Jon laughs, fingers trailing down Tommy’s neck and chest, which color a light pink that matches his cheeks. “ _Very_ pretty.”

Tommy lets Jon talk, as he’s trying to focus on not moving his hips at all as Lovett sinks down onto his dick. Something tells him that, like most things with Jon, this is a test. When Jon finally starts to move, he locks eyes with Tommy and gives him a nod, and Tommy decides that he’s passed.

Jon is tight and hot around him, and Tommy rolls his hips experimentally. Jon chokes out something that sounds like, “ _Please_ ,” and Tommy has never been one to deny Jon much, if anything, so he moves.

 

* * *

 

**three years later**

Tommy runs his hand up and down Jon’s naked back. “Feels good,” Jon murmurs quietly, tucking his head against Tommy’s chest and curving his back toward Tommy’s fingers.

Pundit whines at the foot of their bed, her wet nose nudging at Tommy’s foot. “No,” Jon groans into Tommy’s skin. “We just took you out.”

“Can you be nice to our daughter please,” Tommy laughs. “It’s alright, I’ll take her.”

“Okay, I’ll make coffee,” Jon mumbles, although he looks less than inclined to leave the warmth of their covers. 

“Love you,” Tommy says gratefully.

Tommy slips out of bed, pulls on some sweatpants and a Pod tee-shirt, and calls for Pundit, who follows him happily to the door where the leash is hanging.

Their street is eerily quiet in the early morning. The Los Angeles heatwave that forecasters have been promising seems to have arrived, and Tommy feels a faint sheen of sweat begin to accumulate on the back of his neck. Favs’s place looks like he hasn’t yet woken up, and as the two of them pass by on their walk, Tommy can see a sleepy-looking Leo in the window. He smirks and waves at Leo, who stands up and starts to bark at Tommy. “Wakey wakey, Favs,” Tommy laughs as he jogs down the block.

Their usual circuit takes them around ten minutes to complete, and by the time Tommy gets back, Jon is standing in the doorway with two mugs of coffee in hand. “Come on, Pundit,” Tommy sighs. “Let’s go home.”

**Author's Note:**

> Things that _are_ real:
> 
> \- [Lovett's college thesis](https://www.jstor.org/stable/27642278?seq=1#fndtn-page_scan_tab_contents)  
> \- [Lovett's commencement speech](http://archives.williams.edu/williamshistory/commencement/2004/lovett.php)  
> \- Tommy had [a State Department sponsored sling](http://bradleyswhitford.tumblr.com/post/160035133290/when-tommy-injured-his-shoulder-hillary-sent-him-a)


End file.
